ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


THE  GHETTO 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  GHETTO 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 

by 

LOLA  RIDGE 


New  York    B.  W.  HUEBSCH    Mcmxviii 


COPYRIGHT,    1918,    BY    B.    W.    HUEBSCH 
PRINTED   IN   U.   S.   A. 


PS 


or 

* 


TO  THE  AMERICAN  PEOPLE 

Will  you  feast  with  me,  American  People? 
But  what  have  I  that  shall  seem  good  to  you! 

On  my  board  are  bitter  apples 
And  honey  served  on  thorns, 
And  in  my  flagons  fluid  iron, 
Hot  from  the  crucibles. 

How  should  such  fare  entice  you!, 


CONTENTS 

THE  GHETTO,  3 

MANHATTAN,  29 

BROADWAY,  31 

FLOTSAM,  33 

SPRING,  36 

BOWERY  AFTERNOON,  38 

PROMENADE,  39 

THE  FOG,  41 

FACES,  42 

DEBRIS,  47 

DEDICATION,  48 

THE  SONG  OF  IRON,  49 

FRANK  LITTLE  AT  CALVARY,  54 

SPIRES,  58 

THE  LEGION  OF  IRON,  59 

FUEL,  61 

A  TOAST,  62 

"  THE  EVERLASTING  RETURN,"  67 

PALESTINE,  71 

THE  SONG,  72 

To  THE  OTHERS,  73 


BABEL,  74 

THE  FIDDLER,  75 

DAWN  WIND,  76 

NORTH  WIND,  78 

THE  DESTROYER,  79 

LULLABY,  80 

THE  FOUNDLING,  82 

THE  WOMAN  WITH  JEWELS,  83 

SUBMERGED,  85 

ART  AND  LIFE,  86 

BROOKLYN  BRIDGE,  87 

DREAMS,  88 

THE  FIRE,  89 

A  MEMORY,  90 

THE  EDGE,  91 

THE  GARDEN,  93 

UNDER-SONG,  95 

A  WORN  ROSE,  97 

IRON  WINE,  98 

DISPOSSESSED,  99 

THE  STAR,  100 

THE  TIDINGS,  101 


The  larger  part  of  the  poem  entitled  "  The  Ghetto  " 
appeared  originally  in  The  New  Republic  and  some  of 
the  poems  were  printed  in  The  International,  Others, 
Poetry,  etc.  To  the  editors  who  first  published  the  poems 
the  author  makes  due  acknowledgment. 


THE  GHETTO 


THE  GHETTO 

I 

COOL  inaccessible  air 

Is   floating   in   velvety   blackness    shot   with   steel-blue 

lights, 

But  no  breath  stirs  the  heat 
Leaning  its  ponderous  bulk  upon  the  Ghetto 
And  most  on  Hester  street  .  .  . 

The  heat  .  .  . 

Nosing  in  the  body's  overflow, 

Like  a  beast  pressing  its  great  steaming  belly  close, 

Covering  all  avenues  of  air  ... 

The  heat  in  Hester  street, 

Heaped  like  a  dray 

With  the  garbage  of  the  world. 

Bodies  dangle  from  the  fire  escapes 
Or  sprawl  over  the  stoops  .  .  . 
Upturned  faces  glimmer  pallidly — 
Herring-yellow  faces,  spotted  as  with  a  mold, 
And  moist  faces  of  girls 
Like  dank  white  lilies, 

And  infants'  faces  with  open  parched  mouths 
that  suck  at  the  air  as  at  empty  teats. 
[3] 


Young  women  pass  in  groups, 

Converging  to  the  forums  and  meeting  halls, 

Surging  indomitable,  slow 

Through  the  gross  underbrush  of  heat. 

Their  heads  are  uncovered  to  the  stars, 

And  they  call  to  the  young  men  and  to  one  another 

With  a  free  camaraderie. 

Only  their  eyes  are  ancient  and  alone  .  .  . 

The  street  crawls  undulant, 

Like  a  river  addled 

With  its  hot  tide  of  flesh 

That  ever  thickens. 

Heavy  surges  of  flesh 

Break  over  the  pavements, 

Clavering  like  a  surf  — 

Flesh  of  this  abiding 

Brood  of  those  ancient  mothers  who  saw  the  dawn 

break  over  Egypt  .  .  . 

And  turned  their  cakes  upon  the  dry  hot  stones 
And  went  on 
Till  the  gold  of  the  Egyptians 

fell  down  off  their  arms  .  .  . 
Fasting  and  athirst  .  .  . 
And  yet  on.  ... 

Did  they  vision  —  with  those  eyes  darkly  clear, 

That  looked  the  sun  in  the  face  and  were  not  blinded 

Across  the  centuries 

The  march  of  their  enduring  flesh? 

Did  they  hear  — 

Under  the  molten  silence 

[4] 


Of  the  desert  like  a  stopped  wheel  — 

(And  the  scorpions  tick-ticking  on  the  sand  .  .  .) 

The  infinite  procession  of  those  feet? 

II 

I  room  at  Sodos' —  in  the  little  green  room 

that  was  Bennie's  — 
With  Sadie 

And  her  old  father  and  her  mother, 
Who  is  not  so  old  and  wears  her  own  hair. 

Old  Sodos  no  longer  makes  saddles. 

He  has  forgotten  how. 

He  has  forgotten  most  things  —  even  Bennie  who  stays 

away  and  sends  wine  on  holidays  — 
And  he  does  not  like  Sadie's  mother 
Who  hides  God's  candles, 
Nor  Sadie 

Whose  young  pagan  breath  puts  out  the  light  — 
That  should  burn  always, 
Like  Aaron's  before  the  Lord. 

Time  spins  like  a  crazy  dial  in  his  brain, 

And  night  by  night  .  x 

I  see  the  love-gesture  of  his  arm  V/**^ 

In  its  green -greasy  coat-sleeve 

Circling  the  Book, 

And  the  candles  gleaming  starkly 

On  the  blotched-paper  whiteness  of  his  face, 

Like  a  miswritten  psalm  .  .  . 

Night  by  night 

[5] 


I  hear  his  lifted  praise, 
Like  a  broken  whinnying 
Before  the  Lord's  shut  gate. 

Sadie  dresses  in  black. 

She  has  black-wet  hair  full  of  cold  lights 

And  a  fine-drawn  face,  too  white. 

All  day  the  power  machines 

Drone  in  her  ears  .  .  . 

All  day  the  fine  dust  flies 

Till  throats  are  parched  and  itch 

And  the  heat  —  like  a  kept  corpse  — 

Fouls  to  the  last  corner. 

Then  —  when  needles  move  more  slowly  on  the  cloth 

And  sweaty  fingers  slacken 

And  hair  falls  in  damp  wisps  over  the  eyes  — 

Sped  by  some  power  within, 

Sadie  quivers  like  a  rod  .  .  . 

A  thin  black  piston  flying, 

One  with  her  machine. 

She  —  who  stabs  the  piece-work  with  her  bitter  eye 

And  bids  the  girls:     "  Slow  down  — 

You'll  have  him  cutting  us  again!  " 

She  —  fiery  static  atom, 

Held  in  place  by  the  fierce  pressure  all  about  — 

Speeds  up  the  driven  wheels 

And  biting  steel  —  that  twice 

Has  nipped  her  to  the  bone. 

[6] 


Nights,  she  reads 

Those  books  that  have  most  unset  thought, 

New-poured  and  malleable, 

To  which  her  thought 

Leaps  fusing  at  white  heat, 

Or  spits  her  fire  out  in  some  dim  manger  of  a  hall, 

Or  at  a  protest  meeting  on  the  Square, 

Her  lit  eyes  kindling  the  mob  .  .  . 

Or  dances  madly  at  a  festival. 

Each  dawn  finds  her  a  little  whiter, 

Though  up  and  keyed  to  the  long  day, 

Alert,  yet  weary  .  .  .  like  a  bird 

That  all  night  long  has  beat  about  a  light. 

The  Gentile  lover,  that  she  charms  and  shrews, 

Is  one  more  pebble  in  the  pack 

For  Sadie's  mother, 

Who  greets  him  with  her  narrowed  eyes 

That  hold  some  welcome  back. 

"  What's  to  be  done?  "  she'll  say, 

"  When  Sadie  wants  she  takes  .  .  . 

Better  than  Bennie  with  his  Christian  woman  .  .  . 

A  man  is  not  so  like, 

If  they  should  fight, 

To  call  her  Jew  .  .  ." 

Yet  when  she  lies  in  bed 
And  the  soft  babble  of  their  talk  comes  to  her 
And  the  silences  .  .  . 
I  know  she  never  sleeps 

Till  the  keen  draught  blowing  up  the  empty  hall 

[7] 


Edges  through  her  transom 

And  she  hears  his  foot  on  the  first  stairs. 

Sarah  and  Anna  live  on  the  floor  above. 

Sarah  is  swarthy  and  ill-dressed. 

Life  for  her  has  no  ritual. 

She  would  break  an  ideal  like  an  egg  for  the  winged 

thing  at  the  core. 
Her  mind  is  hard  and  brilliant  and  cutting 

like  an  acetylene  torch. 
If  any  impurities  drift  there,  they  must  be  burnt  up  as 

in  a  clear  flame. 
It  is  droll  that  she  should  work  in  a  pants  factory. 

—  Yet  where  else  .  .  .    tousled  and  collar  awry  at  her 

olive  throat. 

Besides  her  hands  are  unkempt. 
With  English  .  .  .  and  everything  .  .  .  there  is  so  little 

time. 

She  reads  without  bias  — 
Doubting  clamorously  — 
Psychology,  plays,  science,  philosophies  — 
Those  giant  flowers  that  have  bloomed  and  withered, 

scattering  their  seed  .  .  . 

—  And  out  of  this  young  forcing  soil  what  growth  may 

come  —  what  amazing  blossomings. 

Anna  is  different. 

One  is  always  aware  of  Anna,  and  the  young  men 

turn  their  heads  to  look  at  her. 
She  has  the  appeal  of  a  folk-song 
And  her  cheap  clothes  are  always  in  rhythm. 
When  the  strike  was  on  she  gave  half  her  pay. 

[8] 


She  would  give  anything  —  save  the  praise  that  is  hers 
And  the  love  of  her  lyric  body. 

But  Sarah's  desire  covets  nothing  apart. 
She  would  share  all  things  .  .  . 
Even  her  lover. 


Ill 


The  sturdy  Ghetto  children 

March  by  the  parade, 

Waving  their  toy  flags, 

Prancing  to  the  bugles  — 

Lusty,  unafraid  .  .  . 

Shaking  little  fire  sticks 

At  the  night  — 

The  old  blinking  night  — 

Swerving  out  of  the  way, 

Wrapped  in  her  darkness  like  a  shawl, 

But  a  small  girl 

Cowers  apart. 

Her  braided  head, 

Shiny  as  a  black-bird's 

In  the  gleam  of  the  torch-light, 

Is  poised  as  for  flight. 

Her  eyes  have  the  glow 

Of  darkened  lights. 

She  stammers  in  Yiddish, 
But  I  do  not  understand, 
And  there  flits  across  her  face 

[9] 


A  shadow 

As  of  a  drawn  blind. 

I  give  her  an  orange, 

Large  and  golden, 

And  she  looks  at  it  blankly. 

I  take  her  little  cold  hand  and  try  to  draw  her  to  me, 

But  she  is  stiff  .  .  . 

Like  a  doll  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  darts  through  the  crowd 

Like  a  little  white  panic 

Blown  along  the  night  — 

Away  from  the  terror  of  oncoming  feet  .  .  . 

And     drums     rattling     like     curses     in     red     roaring 

mouths  .  .  . 

And  torches  spluttering  silver  fire 
And  lights  that  nose  out  hiding-places  .  .  . 
To  the  night  — 
Squatting  like  a  hunchback 
Under  the  curved  stoop  — 
The  old  mammy-night 

That  has  outlived  beauty  and  knows  the  ways  of  fear  — 
The  night  —  wide-opening  crooked  and  comforting  arms, 
Hiding  her  as  in  a  voluminous  skirt. 

The  sturdy  Ghetto  children 
March  by  the  parade, 
Waving  their  toy  flags, 
Prancing  to  the  bugles, 
Lusty,  unafraid. 
But  I  see  a  white  frock 
And  eyes  like  hooded  lights 

[10] 


Out  of  the  shadow  of  pogroms 
Watching  .  .  .  watching  .  .  . 

IV 

Calicoes  and  furs, 
Pocket-books  and  scarfs, 
Razor  strops  and  knives 
(Patterns  in  check  .  .  .) 

Olive  hands  and  russet  head, 
Pickles  red  and  coppery, 
Green  pickles,  brown  pickles, 
(Patterns  in  tapestry  .  .  .) 

Coral  beads,  blue  beads, 
Beads  of  pearl  and  amber, 
Gewgaws,  beauty  pins  — 
Bijoutry  for  chits  — 
Darting  rays  of  violet, 
Amethyst  and  jade  .  .  . 
All  the  colors  out  to  play, 
Jumbled  iridescently  .  .  . 
(Patterns  in  stained  glass 
Shivered  into  bits ! ) 

Nooses  of  gay  ribbon 
Tugging  at  one's  sleeve, 
Dainty  little  garters 
Hanging  out  their  sign  .  .  . 
Here  a  pout  of  frilly  things  — • 
There  a  sonsy  feather  .  .  . 


(White  beards,  black  beards 
Like  knots  in  the  weave  .  .  .) 

And  ah,  the  little  babies  — 
Shiny  black-eyed  babies  — 
(Half  a  million  pink  toes 
Wriggling  altogether.) 
Baskets  full  of  babies 
Like  grapes  on  a  vine. 

Mothers  waddling  in  and  out, 
Making  all  things  right  — 
Picking  up  the  slipped  threads 
In  Grand  street  at  night  — 
Grand  street  like  a  great  bazaar, 
Crowded  like  a  float, 
Bulging  like  a  crazy  quilt 
Stretched  on  a  line. 

But  nearer  seen 
This  litter  of  the  East 
Takes  on  a  garbled  majesty. 

The  herded  stalls 

In  dissolute  array  .  .  . 

The  glitter  and  the  jumbled  finery 

And  strangely  juxtaposed 

Cans,  paper,  rags 

And  colors  decomposing, 

Faded  like  old  hair, 

With  flashes  of  barbaric  hues 

And  eyes  of  mystery  .  .  . 

[12] 


Flung 

Like  an  ancient  tapestry  of  motley  weave 

Upon  the  open  wall  of  this  new  land. 

Here,  a  tawny-headed  girl  .  .  . 

Lemons  in  a  greenish  broth 

And  a  huge  earthen  bowl 

By  a  bronzed  merchant 

With  a  tall  black  lamb's  wool  cap  upon  his  head 

He  has  no  glance  for  her. 

His  thrifty  eyes 

Bend  —  glittering,  intent 

Their  hoarded  looks 

Upon  his  merchandise, 

As  though  it  were  some  splendid  cloth 

Or  sumptuous  raiment 

Stitched  in  gold  and  red  .  .  . 

He  seldom  talks 

Save  of  the  goods  he  spreads  — 

The  meager  cotton  with  its  dismal  flower  — 

But  with  his  skinny  hands 

That  hover  like  two  hawks 

Above  some  luscious  meat, 

He  fingers  lovingly  each  calico, 

As  though  it  were  a  gorgeous  shawl, 

Or  costly  vesture 

Wrought  in  silken  thread, 

Or  strange  bright  carpet 

Made  for  sandaled  feet  .  .  . 

Here  an  old  grey  scholar  stands. 
His  brooding  eyes  — 

[13] 


That  hold  long  vistas  without  end 
Of  caravans  and  trees  and  roads, 
And  cities  dwindling  in  remembrance  — 
Bend  mostly  on  his  tapes  and  thread. 

What  if  they  tweak  his  beard  — 

These  raw  young  seed  of  Israel 

Who  have  no  backward  vision  in  their  eyes  — 

And  mock  him  as  he  sways 

Above  the  sunken  arches  of  his  feet  — 

They  find  no  peg  to  hang  their  taunts  upon. 

His  soul  is  like  a  rock 

That  bears  a  front  worn  smooth 

By  the  coarse  friction  of  the  sea, 

And,  unperturbed,  he  keeps  his  bitter  peace. 

What  if  a  rigid  arm  and  stuffed  blue  shape, 

Backed  by  a  nickel  star 

Does  prod  him  on, 

Taking  his  proud  patience  for  humility  .  .  . 

All  gutters  are  as  one 

To  that  old  race  that  has  been  thrust 

From  off  the  curbstones  of  the  world  .  .  . 

And  he  smiles  with  the  pale  irony 

Of  one  who  holds 

The  wisdom  of  the  Talmud  stored  away 

In  his  mind's  lavender. 

But  this  young  trader, 
Born  to  trade  as  to  a  caul, 
Peddles  the  notions  of  the  hour. 
The  gestures  of  the  craft  are  his 

[14] 


And  all  the  lore 

As  when  to  hold,  withdraw,  persuade,  advance 

And  be  it  gum  or  flags, 

Or  clean-all  or  the  newest  thing  in  tags, 

Demand  goes  to  him  as  the  bee  to  flower. 

And  he  —  appraising 

All  who  come  and  go 

With  his  amazing 

Sleight-of-mind  and  glance 

And  nimble  thought 

And  nature  balanced  like  the  scales  at  nought  • 

Looks  Westward  where  the  trade-lights  glow, 

And  sees  his  vision  rise  — 

A  tape-ruled  vision, 

Circumscribed  in  stone  — 

Some  fifty  stories  to  the  skies. 


As  I  sit  in  my  little  fifth -floor  room  — 
Bare, 

Save  for  bed  and  chair, 
And  coppery  stains 
Left  by  seeping  rains 
On  the  low  ceiling 
And  green  plaster  walls, 
Where  when  night  falls 
Golden  lady-bugs 
Come  out  of  their  holes, 
And  roaches,  sepia-brown,  consort  .  .  . 
I  hear  bells  pealing 

Out  of  the  gray  church  at  Rutgers  street, 

[15] 


Holding  its  high-flung  cross  above  the  Ghetto, 
And,  one  floor  down  across  the  court, 
The  parrot  screaming: 
Vorwarts  .  .  .  Vorwdrts  .  .  . 

The  parrot  frowsy-white, 
Everlastingly  swinging 
On  its  iron  bar. 

A  little  old  woman, 

With  a  wig  of  smooth  black  hair 

Gummed  about  her  shrunken  brows, 

Comes  sometimes  on  the  fire  escape. 

An  old  stooped  mother, 

The  left  shoulder  low 

With  that  uneven  droopiness  that  women  know 

Who  have  suckled  many  young  .  .  . 

Yet  I  have  seen  no  other  than  the  parrot  there. 

I  watch  her  mornings  as  she  shakes  her  rugs 

Feebly,  with  futile  reach 

And  fingers  without  clutch. 

Her  thews  are  slack 

And  curved  the  ruined  back 

And  flesh  empurpled  like  old  meat, 

Yet  each  conspires 

To  feed  those  guttering  fires 

With  which  her  eyes  are  quick. 

On  Friday  nights 
Her  candles  signal 
Infinite  fine  rays 

[16] 


To  other  windows, 
Coupling  other  lights, 
Linking  the  tenements 
Like  an  endless  prayer. 

She  seems  less  lonely  than  the  bird 

That  day  by  day  about  the  dismal  house 

Screams  out  his  frenzied  word  .  .  . 

That  night  by  night  — 

If  a  dog  yelps 

Or  a  cat  yawls 

Or  a  sick  child  whines, 

Or  a  door  screaks  on  its  hinges, 

Or  a  man  and  woman  fight  — 

Sends  his  cry  above  the  huddled  roofs: 

Vorwarts  .  .  .  Vorwdrts  .  .  . 

VI 

In  this  dingy  cafe 

The  old  men  sit  muffled  in  woollens. 

Everything  is  faded,  shabby,  colorless,  old  .  .  . 

The  chairs,  loose- jointed, 

Creaking  like  old  bones  — 

The  tables,  the  waiters,  the  walls, 

Whose  mottled  plaster 

Blends  in  one  tone  with  the  old  flesh. 

Young  life  and  young  thought  are  alike  barred, 
And  no  unheralded  noises  jolt  old  nerves, 
And  old  wheezy  breaths 
Pass  around  old  thoughts,  dry  as  snuff, 

[17] 


And  there  is  no  divergence  and  no  friction 

Because  life  is  flattened  and  ground  as  by  many  mills. 

And  it  is  here  the  Committee  — 

Sweet-breathed  and  smooth  of  skin 

And  supple  of  spine  and  knee, 

With  shining  unpouched  eyes 

And  the  blood,  high-powered, 

Leaping  in  flexible  arteries  — 

The  insolent,  young,  enthusiastic,  undiscriminating 

Committee, 

Who  would  placard  tombstones 
And  scatter  leaflets  even  in  graves, 
Comes  trampling  with  sacrilegious  feet! 

The  old  men  turn  stiffly, 

Mumbling  to  each  other. 

They  are  gentle  and  torpid  and  busy  with  eating. 

But  one  lifts  a  face  of  clayish  pallor, 

There  is  a  dull  fury  in  his  eyes,  like  little  rusty  grates. 

He  rises  slowly, 

Trembling   in   his   many   swathings   like    an    awakenec 

mummy, 

Ridiculous  yet  terrible. 

—  And  the  Committee  flings  him  a  waste  glance, 
Dropping  a  leaflet  by  his  plate. 

A  lone  fire  flickers  in  the  dusty  eyes. 

The  lips  chant  inaudibly. 

The  warped  shrunken  body  straightens  like  a  tree. 

And  he  curses  .  .  . 

With  uplifted  arms  and  perished  fingers, 

Claw4ike,  clutching.  .  .  . 

[18] 


So  centuries  ago 
The  old  men  cursed  Acosta, 

When  they,  prophetic,  heard  upon  their  sepulchres 
Those  feet  that  may  not  halt  nor  turn  aside  for  ancient 
things. 

VII 

Here  in  this  room,  bare  like  a  barn, 

Egos  gesture  one  to  the  other  — 

Naked,  unformed,  unwinged 

Egos  out  of  the  shell, 

Examining,  searching,  devouring  — 

Avid  alike  for  the  flower  or  the  dung  .  .  . 

(Having  no  dainty  antennae  for  the  touch 

and  withdrawal  — 
Only  the  open  maw  .  .  .) 

Egos  cawing, 

Expanding  in  the  mean  egg  .  .  . 

Little  squat  tailors  with  unkempt  faces, 

Pale  as  lard, 

Fur-makers,  factory-hands,  shop-workers, 

News-boys  with  battling  eyes 

And  bodies  yet  vibrant  with  the  momentum  of  long  runs, 

Here  and  there  a  woman  .  .  . 

Words,  words,  words, 

Pattering  like  hail, 

Like  hail  falling  without  aim  .  .  . 

Egos  rampant, 

Screaming  each  other  down. 

[19] 


One  motions  perpetually, 
Waving  arms  like  overgrowths. 
He  has  burning  eyes  and  a  cough 
And  a  thin  voice  piping 
Like  a  flute  among  trombones. 

One,  red-bearded,  rearing 

A  welter  of  maimed  face  bashed  in  from  some  old  wound, 

Garbles  Max  Stirner. 

His  words  knock  each  other  like  little  wooden  blocks. 

No  one  heeds  him, 

And  a  lank  boy  with  hair  over  his  eyes 

Pounds  upon  the  table. 

—  He  is  chairman. 

Egos  yet  in  the  primer, 

Hearing  world-voices 

Chanting  grand  arias  .  .  . 

Majors  resonant, 

Stunning  with  sound  .  .  . 

Baffling  minors 

Half-heard  like  rain  on  pools  .  .  . 

Majestic  discordances 

Greater  than  harmonies  .  .  . 

—  Gleaning  out  of  it  all 
Passion,  bewilderment,  pain  .  .  . 

Egos  yearning  with  the  world-old  want  in  their  eyes  — 
Hurt  hot  eyes  that  do  not  sleep  enough  .  .  . 
Striving  with  infinite  effort, 
Frustrate  yet  ever  pursuing 
The  great  white  Liberty, 

[20] 


Trailing  her  dissolving  glory  over  each  hard-won 

barricade  — 
Only  to  fade  anew  .  .  . 

Egos  crying  out  of  unkempt  deeps 
And  waving  their  dreams  like  flags  — 
Multi-colored  dreams, 
Winged  and  glorious  .  .  . 

A  gas  jet  throws  a  stunted  flame, 
Vaguely  illumining  the  groping  faces. 
And  through  the  uncurtained  window 
Falls  the  waste  light  of  stars, 
As  cold  as  wise  men's  eyes  .  .  . 
Indifferent  great  stars, 
Fortuitously  glancing 
At  the  secret  meeting  in  this  shut-in  room, 
Bare  as  a  manger. 

VIII 

Lights  go  out 

And  the  stark  trunks  of  the  factories 
Melt  into  the  drawn  darkness, 
Sheathing  like  a  seamless  garment. 

And  mothers  take  home  their  babies, 

Waxen  and  delicately  curled, 

Like  little  potted  flowers  closed  under  the  stars. 

Lights  go  out 

And  the  young  men  shut  their  eyes, 

But  life  turns  in  them  .  .  . 

[21] 


Life  in  the  cramped  ova 

Tearing  and  rending  asunder  its  living  cells  .  .  . 

Wars,  arts,  discoveries,  rebellions,  travails,  immolations, 

cataclysms,  hates  .  .  . 
Pent  in  the  shut  flesh. 
And  the  young  men  twist  on  their  beds  in  languor 

and  dizziness  unsupportable  .  .  . 
Their  eyes  —  heavy  and  dimmed 

With  dust  of  long  oblivions  in  the  gray  pulp  behind  — 
Staring  as  through  a  choked  glass. 

And  they  gaze  at  the  moon  —  throwing  off  a  faint  heat  — 
The  moon,  blond  and  burning,  creeping  to  their  cots 
Softly,  as  on  naked  feet  .  .  . 
Lolling  on  the  coverlet  .  .  .  like  a  woman  offering 

her  white  body, 

Nude  glory  of  the  moon ! 

That  leaps  like  an  athlete  on  the  bosoms  of  the  young 

girls  stripped  of  their  linens; 
Stroking  their  breasts  that  are  smooth  and  cool 

as  mother-of-pearl 
Till  the  nipples  tingle  and  burn  as  though  little  lips 

plucked  at  them. 
They  shudder  and  grow  faint. 

And  their  ears  are  filled  as  with  a  delirious  rhapsody, 
That  Life,  like  a  drunken  player, 
Strikes  out  of  their  clear  white  bodies 
As  out  of  ivory  keys. 

Lights  go  out  .  .  . 

And  the  great  lovers  linger  in  little  groups, 
still  passionately  debating, 
[22] 


Or  one  may  walk  in  silence,  listening  only 
to  the  still  summons  of  Life  — 

Life  making  the  great  Demand  .  .  . 

Calling  its  new  Christs  .  .  . 

Till  tears  come,  blurring  the  stars 

That  grow  tender  and  comforting  like  the  eyes  of  com 
rades; 

And  the  moon  rolls  behind  the  Battery 

Like  a  word  molten  out  of  the  mouth  of  God. 

Lights  go  out  .  .  . 

And  colors  rush  together, 

Fusing  and  floating  away  .  .  . 

Pale  worn  gold  like  the  settings  of  old  jewels  .  .  . 

Mauves,  exquisite,  tremulous,  and  luminous  purples 

And  burning  spires  in  aureoles  of  light 

Like  shimmering  auras. 

They  are  covering  up  the  pushcarts  .  .  . 

Now  all  have  gone  save  an  old  man  with  mirrors  — 

Little  oval  mirrors  like  tiny  pools. 

He  shuffles  up  a  darkened  street 

And  the  moon  burnishes  his  mirrors  till  they  shine  like 

phosphorus  .  .  . 
The  moon  like  a  skull, 
Staring  out  of  eyeless  sockets  at  the  old  men  trundling 

home  the  pushcarts. 

IX 

A  sallow  dawn  is  in  the  sky 
As  I  enter  my  little  green  room. 
Sadie's  light  is  still  burning  .  .  . 

[23] 


Without,  the  frail  moon 

Worn  to  a  silvery  tissue, 

Throws  a  faint  glamour  on  the  roofs, 

And  down  the  shadowy  spires 

Lights  tip -toe  out  .  .  . 

Softly  as  when  lovers  close  street  doors. 

Out  of  the  Battery 

A  little  wind 

Stirs  idly  —  as  an  arm 

Trails  over  a  boat's  side  in  dalliance  — 

Rippling  the  smooth  dead  surface  of  the  heat, 

And  Hester  street, 

Like  a  forlorn  woman  over-born 

By  many  babies  at  her  teats, 

Turns  on  her  trampled  bed  to  meet  the  day. 

LIFE! 

Startling,  vigorous  life, 

That  squirms  under  my  touch, 

And  baffles  me  when  I  try  to  examine  it, 

Or  hurls  me  back  without  apology. 

Leaving  my  ego  ruffled  and  preening  itself. 

Life, 

Articulate,  shrill, 

Screaming  in  provocative  assertion, 

Or  out  of  the  black  and  clotted  gutters. 

Piping  in  silvery  thin 

Sweet  staccato 

Of  children's  laughter, 

[24] 


Or  clinging  over  the  pushcarts 

Like  a  litter  of  tiny  bells 

Or  the  jingle  of  silver  coins, 

Perpetually  changing  hands, 

Or  like  the  Jordan  somberly 

Swirling  in  tumultuous  uncharted  tides, 

Surface-calm. 

Electric  currents  of  life, 
Throwing  off  thoughts  like  sparks, 
Glittering,  disappearing, 
Making  unknown  circuits, 
Or  out  of  spent  particles  stirring 
Feeble  contortions  in  old  faiths 
Passing  before  the  new. 

Long  nights  argued  away 

In  meeting  halls 

Back  of  interminable  stairways  — 

In  Roumanian  wine-shops 

And  little  Russian  tea-rooms  .  .  . 

Feet  echoing  through  deserted  streets 
In  the  soft  darkness  before  dawn  .  .  <, 
Brows  aching,  throbbing,  burning  — 
Life  leaping  in  the  shaken  flesh 
Like  flame  at  an  asbestos  curtain. 

Life  — 

Pent,  overflowing 
Stoops  and  facades, 
Jostling,  pushing,  contriving, 
Seething  as  in  a  great  vat  .  .  . 

[25] 


Bartering,  changing,  extorting. 
Dreaming,  debating,  aspiring, 
Astounding,  indestructible 
Life  of  the  Ghetto  .  .  . 

Strong  flux  of  life, 

Like  a  bitter  wine 

Out  of  the  bloody  stills  of  the  world 

Out  of  the  Passion  eternal. 


[26] 


MANHATTAN  LIGHTS 


MANHATTAN 

OUT  of  the  night  you  burn,  Manhattan, 

In  a  vesture  of  gold  — 

Spun  of  innumerable  arcs, 

Flaring  and  multiplying  — 

Gold  at  the  uttermost  circles  fading 

Into  the  tenderest  hint  of  jade, 

Or  fusing  in  tremulous  twilight  blues, 

Robing  the  far-flung  offices, 

Scintillant-storied,  forking  flame, 

Or  soaring  to  luminous  amethyst 

Over  the  steeples  aureoled  — 

Diaphanous  gold, 

Veiling  the  Woolworth,  argently 

Rising  slender  and  stark 

Mellifluous-shrill  as  a  vender's  cry, 

And  towers  squatting  graven  and  cold 

On  the  velvet  bales  of  the  dark, 

And  the  Singer's  appraising 

Indolent  idol's  eye, 

And  night  like  a  purple  cloth  unrolled  — 

Nebulous  gold 

Throwing   an   ephemeral    glory   about   life's   vanishing 

points, 
Wherein  you  burn  .  .  . 

[29] 


You  of  unknown  voltage 
Whirling  on  your  axis  .  .  . 
Scrawling  vermillion  signatures 
Over  the  night's  velvet  hoarding 
Insolent,  towering  spherical 
To  apices  ever  shifting. 


[30] 


BROADWAY 

LIGHT! 

Innumerable  ions  of  light, 

Kindling,  irradiating, 

All  to  their  foci  tending  .  .  . 

Light  that  jingles  like  anklet  chains 
On  bevies  of  little  lithe  twinkling  feet, 
Or  clingles  in  myriad  vibrations 
Like  trillions  of  porcelain 
Vases  shattering  .  .  . 

Light  over  the  laminae  of  roofs, 
Diffusing  in  shimmering  nebulas 
About  the  night's  boundaries, 
Or  billowing  in  pearly  foam 
Submerging  the  low-lying  stars  .  .  . 

Light  for  the  feast  prolonged  — 

Captive  light  in  the  goblets  quivering  . 

Sparks  evanescent 

Struck  of  meeting  looks  — • 

Fringed  eyelids  leashing 

Sheathed  and  leaping  lights  .  •  • 

Infinite  bubbles  of  light 

Bursting,  reforming  .  .  . 

Silvery  filings  of  light 

[31] 


Incessantly  falling  .  .  . 

Scintillant,  sided  dust  of  light 

Out  of  the  white  flares  of  Broadway  — 

Like  a  great  spurious  diamond 

In  the  night's  corsage  faceted  .  .  . 

Broadway, 

In  ambuscades  of  light, 

Drawing  the  charmed  multitudes 

With  the  slow  suction  of  her  breath  — 

Dangling  her  naked  soul 

Behind  the  blinding  gold  of  eunuch  lights 

That  wind  about  her  like  a  bodyguard. 

Or  like  a  huge  serpent,  iridescent-scaled, 

Trailing  her  coruscating  length 

Over  the  night  prostrate  — 

Triumphant  poised, 

Her  hydra  heads  above  the  avenues, 

Values  appraising 

And  her  avid  eyes 

Glistening  with  eternal  watchfulness  .  .  . 

Broadway  — 

Out  of  her  towers  rampant, 

Like  an  unsubtle  courtezan 

Reserving  nought  for  some  adventurous  night. 


[32] 


FLOTSAM 

Crass  rays  streaming  from  the  vestibules; 

Cafes  glittering  like  jeweled  teeth; 

High-flung  signs 

Blinking  yellow  phosphorescent  eyes; 

Girls  in  black 

Circling  monotonously 

About  the  orange  lights  .  .  . 

Nothing  to  guess  at  ... 
Save  the  darkness  above 
Crouching  like  a  great  cat. 

In  the  dim-lit  square, 

Where  dishevelled  trees 

Tustle  with  the  wind  —  the  wind  like  a  scythe 

Mowing  their  last  leaves  — 

Arcs  shimmering  through  a  greenish  haze  — 

Pale  oval  arcs 

Like  ailing  virgins, 

Each  out  of  a  halo  circumscribed, 

Pallidly  staring  ... 

Figures  drift  upon  the  benches 
With  no  more  rustle  than  a  dropped  leaf  settling 
Slovenly  figures  like  untied  parcels, 
And  papers  wrapped  about  their  knees 

[33] 


Huddled  one  to  the  other, 
Cringing  to  the  wind  — 
The  sided  wind, 
Leaving  no  breach  untried  .  .  . 

So  many  and  all  so  still  .  .  . 

The  fountain  slobbering  its  stone  basin 

Is  louder  than  They  — 

Flotsam  of  the  five  oceans 

Here  on  this  raft  of  the  world. 

This  old  man's  head 

Has  found  a  woman's  shoulder. 

The  wind  juggles  with  her  shawl 

That  flaps  about  them  like  a  sail, 

And  splashes  her  red  faded  hair 

Over  the  salt  stubble  of  his  chin. 

A  light  foam  is  on  his  lips, 

As  though  dreams  surged  in  him 

Breaking  and  ebbing  away  .  .  . 

And  the  bare  boughs  shuffle  above  him 

And  the  twigs  rattle  like  dice  .  .  . 

She  —  diffused  like  a  mem  beetle  — 

Sprawls  without  grace, 

Her  face  gray  as  asphalt, 

Her  jaws  sagging  as  on  loosened  hinges  .  .  . 

Shadows  ply  about  her  mouth  — 

Nimble  shadows  out  of  the  jigging  tree, 

That  dances  above  her  its  dance  of  dry  bones. 


[34] 


II 

A  uniformed  front, 
Paunched ; 

A  glance  like  a  blow, 
The  swing  of  an  arm, 
Verved,  vigorous; 
Boot-heels  clanking 
In  metallic  rhythm; 
The  blows  of  a  baton, 
Quick,  staccato  .  .  . 

—  There  is  a  rustling  along  the  benches 
As  of  dried  leaves  raked  over  .  .  . 
And  the  old  man  lifts  a  shaking  palsied  hand, 
Tucking  the  displaced  paper  about  his  knees. 

Colder  .  .  . 

And  a  frost  under  foot, 

Acid,  corroding, 

Eating  through  worn  bootsoles. 

Drab  forms  blur  into  greenish  vapor. 
Through  boughs  like  cross-bones, 
Pale  arcs  flare  and  shiver 
Like  lilies  in  a  wind. 

High  over  Broadway 

A  far-flung  sign 

Glitters  in  indigo  darkness 

And  spurts  again  rhythmically, 

Spraying  great  drops 

Red-trfce  a  hemorrhage. 

[35] 


SPRING 

A  SPRING  wind  on  the  Bowery, 

Blowing  the  fluff  of  night  shelters 

Off  bedraggled  garments, 

And  agitating  the  gutters,  that  eject  little  spirals 

of  vapor 
Like  lewd  growths. 

Bare-legged  children  stamp  in  the  puddles, 

splashing  each  other, 
One  —  with  a  choir-boy's  face 
Twits  me  as  I  pass  .  .  . 
The  word,  like  a  muddied  drop, 
Seems  to  roll  over  and  not  out  of 
The  bowed  lips, 
Yet  dewy  red 
And  sweetly  immature. 

People  sniff  the  air  with  an  upward  look  — 

Even  the  mite  of  a  girl 

Who  never  plays  .  .  . 

Her  mother  smiles  at  her 

With  eyes  like  vacant  lots 

Rimming  vistas  of  mean  streets 

And  endless  washing  days  .  .  . 

Yet  with  sun  on  the  lines 

And  a  drying  breeze. 

[36] 


The  old  candy  woman 

Shivers  in  the  young  wind. 

Her  eyes  —  littered  with  memories 

Like  ancient  garrets, 

Or  dusty  unaired  rooms  where  someone  died  — 

Ask  nothing  of  the  spring. 

But  a  pale  pink  dream 

Trembles  about  this  young  girl's  body, 

Draping  it  like  a  glowing  aura. 

She  gloats  in  a  mirror 

Over  her  gaudy  hat, 

With  its  flower  God  never  thought  of  ... 

And  the  dream,  unrestrained, 
Floats  about  the  loins  of  a  soldier, 
Where  it  quivers  a  moment, 
Warming  to  a  crimson 
Like  the  scarf  of  a  toreador  .  .  . 

But  the  delicate  gossamer  breaks  at  his  contact 
And  recoils  to  her  in  strands  of  shattered  rose, 


[37] 


BOWERY  AFTERNOON 

DRAB  discoloration 

Of  faces,  fagades,  pawn-shops, 

Second-hand  clothing, 

Smoky  and  fly-blown  glass  of  lunch-rooms, 

Odors  of  rancid  life  .  .  . 

Deadly  uniformity 

Of  eyes  and  windows 

Alike  devoid  of  light  .  .  . 

Holes  wherein  life  scratches  — 

Mangy  life 

Nosing  to  the  gutter's  end  .  .  . 

Show-rooms  and  mimic  pillars 
Flaunting  out  of  their  gaudy  vestibules 
Bosoms  and  posturing  thighs  .  .  . 

Over  all  the  Elevated 
Droning  like  a  bloated  fly. 


[38] 


PROMENADE 

UNDULANT  rustlings, 

Of  oncoming  silk, 

Rhythmic,  incessant, 

Like  the  motion  of  leaves  .  .  . 

Fragments  of  color 

In  glowing  surprises  .  .  . 

Pink  inuendoes 

Hooded  in  gray 

Like  buds  in  a  cobweb 

Pearled  at  dawn  .  .  . 

Glimpses  of  green 

And  blurs  of  gold 

And  delicate  mauves 

That  snatch  at  youth  .  .  . 

And  bodies  all  rosily 

Fleshed  for  the  airing, 

In  warm  velvety  surges 

Passing  imperious,  slow  .  .  . 

Women  drift  into  the  limousines 
That  shut  like  silken  caskets 
On  gems  half  weary  of  their  glittering 
Lamps  open  like  pale  moon  flowers  .  . 
Arcs  are  radiant  opals 
Strewn  along  the  dusk  .  .  . 
No  common  lights  invade. 
[39] 


And  spires  rise  like  litanies  — » 
Magnificats  of  stone 
Over  the  white  silence  of  the  arcs, 
Burning  in  perpetual  adoration. 


[40] 


THE  FOG 

OUT  of  the  lamp-bestarred  and  clouded  dusk- 

Snaring,  illuding,  concealing, 

Magically  conjuring  — 

Turning  to  fairy-coaches 

Beetle-backed  limousines 

Scampering  under  the  great  Arch  — 

Making  a  decoy  of  blue  overalls 

And  mystery  of  a  scarlet  shawl  — 

Indolently  — 

Knowing  no  impediment  of  its  sure  advance  — 

Descends  the  fog. 


[41] 


FACES 

A  LATE  snow  beats 

With  cold  white  fists  upon  the  tenements  — 

Hurriedly  drawing  blinds  and  shutters, 

Like  tall  old  slatterns 

Pulling  aprons  about  their  heads. 

Lights  slanting  out  of  Mott  Street 

Gibber  out, 

Or  dribble  through  bar-room  slits, 

Anonymous  shapes 

Conniving  behind  shuttered  panes 

Caper  and  disappear  .  .  . 

Where  the  Bowery 

Is  throbbing  like  a  fistula 

Back  of  her  ice-scabbed  fronts. 

Livid  faces 

Glimmer  in  furtive  doorways, 

Or  spill  out  of  the  black  pockets  of  alleys, 

Smears  of  faces  like  muddied  beads, 

Making  a  ghastly  rosary 

The  night  mumbles  over 

And  the  snow  with  its  devilish  and  silken  whisper 

Patrolling  arcs 

Blowing  shrill  blasts  over  the  Bread  Line 

Stalk  them  as  they  pass, 

[42] 


Silent  as  though  accouched  of  the  darkness, 
And  the  wind  noses  among  them, 

Like  a  skunk 
That  roots  about  the  heart  .  .  . 

Colder: 

And  the  Elevated  slams  upon  the  silence 

Like  a  ponderous  door. 

Then  all  is  still  again, 

Save  for  the  wind  fumbling  over 

The  emptily  swaying  faces  — 

The  wind  rummaging 

Like  an  old  Jew  .  .  . 

Faces  in  glimmering  rows  .  .  . 

(No  sign  of  the  abject  life  — 

Not  even  a  blasphemy  .  .  .) 

But  the  spindle  legs  keep  time 

To  a  limping  rhythm, 

And  the  shadows  twitch  upon  the  snow 

Convulsively  — 
As  though  death  played 
With  some  ungainly  dolls. 


[43] 


LABOR 


DEBRIS 

I  LOVE  those  spirits 

That  men  stand  off  and  point  at, 

Or  shudder  and  hood  up  their  souls  — 

Those  ruined  ones, 

Where  Liberty  has  lodged  an  hour 

And  passed  like  flame, 

Bursting  asunder  the  too  small  house. 


[47] 


DEDICATION 

I  WOULD  be  a  torch  unto  your  hand, 
A  lamp  upon  your  forehead,  Labor, 
In  the  wild  darkness  before  the  Dawn 
That  I  shall  never  see  .  .  . 

We  shall  advance  together,  my  Beloved, 
Awaiting  the  mighty  ushering  .  .  . 
Together  we  shall  make  the  last  grand  charge 
And  ride  with  gorgeous  Death 
With  all  her  spangles  on 
And  cymbals  clashing  .  .  . 
And  you  shall  rush  on  exultant  as  I  fall  — 
Scattering  a  brief  fire  about  your  feet  .  .  . 

Let  it  be  so  ... 

Better  —  while  life  is  quick 

And  every  pain  immense  and  joy  supreme, 

And  all  I  have  and  am 

Flames  upward  to  the  dream  .  .  . 

Than  like  a  taper  forgotten  in  the  dawn, 

Burning  out  the  wick. 


[48] 


THE  SONG  OF  IRON 


NOT  yet  hast  Thou  sounded 

Thy  clangorous  music, 

Whose  strings  are  under  the  mountains  .  .  . 

Not  yet  hast  Thou  spoken 

The  blooded,  implacable  Word  .  .  . 

But  I  hear  in  the  Iron  singing  — 

In   the  triumphant   roaring   of  the  steam  and  pistons 

pounding  — 

Thy  barbaric  exhortation  .  .  . 
And  the  blood  leaps  in  my  arteries,  unreproved, 
Answering  Thy  call  .  .  . 
All  my  spirit  is  inundated  with  the  tumultuous  passion 

of  Thy  Voice, 

And  sings  exultant  with  the  Iron, 
For  now  I  know  I  too  am  of  Thy  Chosen  .  .  . 

Oh  fashioned  in  fire  — 

Needing  flame  for  Thy  ultimate  word  — 

Behold  me,  a  cupola 

Poured  to  Thy  use! 

Heed  not  my  tremulous  body 
That  faints  in  the  grip  of  Thy  gauntlet. 
Break  it  ...  and  cast  it  aside  .  .  . 

[49] 


- 
But  make  of  my  spirit 

That  dares  and  endures 

Thy  crucible  .  .  . 

Pour  through  my  soul 

Thy  molten,  world-whelming  song. 

.  .  .  Here  at  Thy  uttermost  gate 
Like  a  new  Mary,  I  wait  .  .  . 

II 

Charge  the  blast  furnace,  workman  .  . 
Open  the  valves  — 
Drive  the  fires  high  .  .  . 
(Night  is  above  the  gates). 

How  golden-hot  the  ore  is 

From  the  cupola  spurting, 

Tossing  the  flaming  petals 

Over  the  silt  and  the  furnace  ash  — 

Blown  leaves,  devastating, 

Falling  about  the  world  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  furnace  mouth  — 
Out  of  the  giant  mouth  — 
The  raging,  turgid  mouth  — 
Fall  fiery  blossoms 
Gold  with  the  gold  of  buttercups 
In  a  field  at  sunset, 
Or  huskier  gold  of  dandelions, 
Warmed  in  sun-leavings, 
Or  changing  to  the  paler  hue 
At  the  creamy  hearts  of  primroses. 

[50] 


Charge  the  converter,  workman  — • 
Tired  from  the  long  night? 
But  the  earth  shall  suck  up  darkness  — 
The  earth  that  holds  so  much  .  .  . 
And  out  of  these  molten  flowers, 
Shall  shape  the  heavy  fruit  .  .  . 

Then  open  the  valves  — 
Drive  the  fires  high, 
Your  blossoms  nurturing. 
(Day  is  at  the  gates 
And  a  young  wind  .  .  .) 

Put  by  your  rod,  comrade, 

And  look  with  me,  shading  your  eyes  .  .  . 

Do  you  not  see  — 

Through  the  lucent  haze 

Out  of  the  converter  rising  — 

In  the  spirals  of  fire 

Smiting  and  blinding, 

A  shadowy  shape 

White  as  a  flame  of  sacrifice, 

Like  a  lily  swaying? 

Ill 

The  ore  is  leaping  in  the  crucibles, 

The  ore  communicant, 

Sending  faint  thrills  along  the  leads  .  .  . 

Fire  is  running  along  the  roots  of  the  mountains 

[51] 


I  feel  the  long  recoil  of  earth 

As  under  a  mighty  quickening  .  .  . 

(Dawn  is  aglow  in  the  light  of  the  Iron  .  .  .) 

All  palpitant,  I  wait  .  .  . 

IV 

Here  ye,  Dictators  —  late  Lords  of  the  Iron, 

Shut  in  your  council  rooms,  palsied,  depowered  — 

The  blooded,  implacable  Word? 

Not  whispered  in  cloture,  one  to  the  other, 

(Brother  in  fear  of  the  fear  of  his  brother  .  .  .) 

But  chanted  and  thundered 

On  the  brazen,  articulate  tongues  of  the  Iron 

Babbling  in  flame  .  .  . 

Sung  to  the  rhythm  of  prisons  dismantled, 
Manacles  riven  and  ramparts  defaced  .  .  . 
(Hearts  death-anointed  yet  hearing  life  calling  .  .  .) 
Ankle  chains  bursting  and  gallows  unbraced  .  .  . 

Sung  to  the  rhythm  of  arsenals  burning  .  .  . 

Clangor  of  iron  smashing  on  iron, 

Turmoil  of  metal  and  dissonant  baying 

Of  mail-sided  monsters  shattered  asunder  .  .  . 

Hulks  of  black  turbines  all  mangled  and  roaring, 
Battering  egress  through  ramparted  walls  .  .  . 
Mouthing  of  engines,  made  rabid  with  power, 
Into  the  holocaust  snorting  and  plunging  .  .  . 

[52] 


Mighty  converters  torn  from  their  axis, 
Flung  to  the  furnaces,  vomiting  fire, 
Jumbled  in  white-heaten  masses  disshapen  .  .  . 
Writhing  in  flame-tortured  levers  of  iron  .  .  . 

Gnashing  of  steel  serpents  twisting  and  dying  .  .  . 
Screeching  of  steam-glutted  cauldrons  rending  .  .  . 
Shock  of  leviathans  prone  on  each  other  .  .  . 
Scaled  flanks  touching,  ore  entering  ore  .  .  . 
Steel  haunches  closing  and  grappling  and  swaying 
In  the  waltz  of  the  mating  locked  mammoths  of  iron, 
Tasting  the  turbulent  fury  of  living, 
Mad  with  a  moment's  exuberant  living! 
Crash  of  devastating  hammers  despoiling  .  . 
Hands  inexorable,  marring 
What  hands  had  so  cunningly  moulded  .  .  . 

Structures  of  steel  welded,  subtily  tempered, 
Marvelous  wrought  of  the  wizards  of  ore, 
Torn  into  octaves  discordantly  clashing, 
Chords  never  final  but  onward  progressing 
In  monstrous  fusion  of  sound  ever  smiting  on  sound 
in  mad  vortices  whirling  .  .  . 

Till  the  ear,  tortured,  shrieks  for  cessation 
Of  the  raving  inharmonies  hatefully  mingling  .  .  . 
The  fierce  obligato  the  steel  pipes  are  screaming  .  .  , 
The  blare  of  the  rude  molten  music  of  Iron  .  .  . 


[53] 


FRANK  LITTLE  AT  CALVARY 


HE  walked  under  the  shadow  of  the  Hill 

Where  men  are  fed  into  the  fires 

And  walled  apart  .  .  . 

Unarmed  and  alone, 

He  summoned  his  mates  from  the  pit's  mouth 

Where  tools  rested  on  the  floors 

And  great  cranes  swung 

Unemptied,  on  the  iron  girders. 

And  they,  who  were  the  Lords  of  the  Hill, 

Were  seized  with  a  great  fear, 

When  they  heard  out  of  the  silence  of  wheels 

The  answer  ringing 

In  endless  reverberations 

Under  the  mountain  .  .  . 

So  they  covered  up  their  faces 
And  crept  upon  him  as  he  slept  .  .  . 
Out  of  eye-holes  in  black  cloth 
They  looked  upon  him  who  had  flung 
Between  them  and  their  ancient  prey 
The  frail  barricade  of  his  life  .  .  . 
And  when  night  —  that  has  connived  at  so  much 
Was  heavy  with  the  unborn  day, 
They  haled  him  from  his  bed  .  .  . 

[54] 


Who  may  know  of  that  wild  ride? 

Only  the  bleak  Hill  - 

The  red  Hill,  vigilant, 

Like  a  blood-shot  eye 

In  the  black  mask  of  night  — 

Dared  watch  them  as  they  raced 

By  each  blind-folded  street 

Godiva  might  have  ridden  down  .  .  . 

But  when  they  stopped  beside  the  Place, 

I  know  he  turned  his  face 

Wistfully  to  the  accessory  night  .  .  . 

And  when  he  saw  —  against  the  sky, 

Sagged  like  a  silken  net 

Under  its  load  of  stars  — 

The  black  bridge  poised 

Like  a  gigantic  spider  motionless  .  .  . 

I  know  there  was  a  silence  in  his  heart, 

As  of  a  frozen  sea, 

Where  some  half  lifted  arm,  mid-way 

Wavers,  and  drops  heavily  .  .  . 

I  know  he  waved  to  life, 

And  that  life  signaled  back,  transcending  space, 

To  each  high-powered  sense, 

So  that  he  missed  no  gesture  of  the  wind 

Drawing  the  shut  leaves  close  .  .  . 

So  that  he  saw  the  light  on  comrades'  faces 

Of  camp  fires  out  of  sight  .  .  . 

And  the  savor  of  meat  and  bread 

Blew  in  his  nostrils  .  .  .  and  the  breath 

Of  unrailed  spaces 

[55] 


Where  shut  wild  clover  smelled  as  sweet 
As  a  virgin  in  her  bed. 

I  know  he  looked  once  at  America, 
Quiescent,  with  her  great  flanks  on  the  globe, 
And  once  at  the  skies  whirling  above  him  .  .  . 
Then  all  that  he  had  spoken  against 
And  struck  against  and  thrust  against 
Over  the  frail  barricade  of  his  life 
Rushed  between  him  and  the  stars  .  .  . 

II 

Life  thunders  on  ... 
Over  the  black  bridge 
The  line  of  lighted  cars 
Creeps  like  a  monstrous  serpent 
Spooring  gold  .  .  . 

Watchman,  what  of  the  track? 

Night  .  .  .  silence  .  .  .  stars  .  .  . 
All's  Well! 

Ill 

Light  .  .  . 

(Breaking  mists  .  .  . 

Hills  gliding  like  hands  out  of  a  slipping  hold  .  .  .) 

Light  over  the  pit  mouths, 

Streaming  in  tenuous  rays  down  the  black  gullets  of  the 

Hill  .  .  . 

(The  copper,  insensate,  sleeping  in  the  buried  lode.) 

[56] 


Light  .  .  . 

Forcing  the  clogged  windows  of  arsenals  .  .  . 

Probing    with    long    sentient    fingers    in    the    copper 

chips  .  .  . 

Gleaming  metallic  and  cold 
In  numberless  slivers  of  steel  .  .  . 
Light  over  the  trestles  and  the  iron  clips 
Of   the   black  bridge  —  poised   like   a   gigantic   spider 

motionless  — 

Sweet  inquisition  of  light,  like  a  child's  wonder  .  .  . 
Intrusive,  innocently  staring  light 
That  nothing  appals  .  .  . 

Light  in  the  slow  fumbling  summer  leaves, 

Cooing  and  calling 

All  winged  and  avid  things 

Waking  the  early  flies,  keen  to  the  scent  .  .  . 

Green -jeweled  iridescent  flies 

Unerringly  steering  — 

Swarming  over  the  blackened  lips, 

The  young  day  sprays  with  indiscriminate  gold  .  .  . 

Watchman,  what  of  the  Hill? 

Wheels  turn; 

The  laden  cars 

Go  rumbling  to  the  mill, 

And  Labor  walks  beside  the  mules  .  .  . 

All's  Well  with  the  Hill! 


[57] 


SPIRES 

SPIRES  of  Grace  Church, 
For  you  the  workers  of  the  world 
Travailed  with  the  mountains  .  .  . 
Aborting  their  own  dreams 
Till  the  dream  of  you  arose  — 
Beautiful,  swaddled  in  stone  — 
Scorning  their  hands. 


[58] 


THE  LEGION  OF  IRON 

THEY  pass  through  the  great  iron  gates  — 

Men  with  eyes  gravely  discerning, 

Skilled  to  appraise  the  tunnage  of  cranes 

Or  split  an  inch  into  thousandths  — 

Men  tempered  by  fire  as  the  ore  is 

And  planned  to  resistance 

Like  steel  that  has  cooled  in  the  trough; 

Silent  of  purpose,  inflexible,  set  to  fulfilment — • 

To  conquer,  withstand,  overthrow  .  .  . 

Men  mannered  to  large  undertakings, 

Knowing  force  as  a  brother 

And  power  as  something  to  play  with, 

Seeing  blood  as  a  slip  of  the  iron, 

To  be  wiped  from  the  tools 

Lest  they  rust. 

But  what  if  they  stood  aside, 

Who  hold  the  earth  so  careless  in  the  crook  of  their 
arms? 

What  of  the  flamboyant  cities 

And  the  lights  guttering  out  like  candles  in  a  wind  .  .  • 
And  the  armies  halted  .  .  . 
And  the  train  mid-way  on  the  mountain 
And  idle  men  chaffing  across  the  trenches  .  .  . 
And  the  cursing  and  lamentation 

[59] 


And  the  clamor  for  grain  shut  in  the  mills  of  the  world? 

What  if  they  stayed  apart, 

Inscrutably  smiling, 

Leaving  the  ground  encumbered  with  dead  wire 

And  the  sea  to  row-boats 

And  the  lands  marooned  — 

Till  Time  should  like  a  paralytic  sit, 

A  mildewed  hulk  above  the  nations  squatting? 


[60] 


FUEL 

WHAT  of  the  silence  of  the  keys 
And  silvery  hands?     The  iron  sings  .  .  . 
Though  bows  lie  broken  on  the  strings, 
The  fly-wheels  turn  eternally  .  .  . 

Bring  fuel  —  drive  the  fires  high  .  .  . 
Throw  all  this  artist-lumber  in 
And  foolish   dreams   of  making  things  .  .  . 
(Ten  million  men  are  called  to  die.) 

As  for  the  common  men  apart, 
Who  sweat  to  keep  their  common  breath, 
And  have  no  hour  for  books  or  art  — 
What  dreams  have  these  to  hide  from  death! 


[61] 


A  TOAST 

NOT  your  martyrs  anointed  of  heaven  — 
The  ages  are  red  where  they  trod  — 

But   the   Hunted  —  the   world's   bitter   leaven  — 
Who  smote  at  your  imbecile  God  — 

A  being  to  pander  and  fawn  to, 

To  propitiate,  flatter  and  dread 
As  a  thing  that  your  souls  are  in  pawn  to, 

A  Dealer  who  traffics  the  dead; 

A  Trader  with  greed  never  sated, 
Who  barters  the  souls  in  his  snares, 

That  were  trapped  in  the  lusts  he  created, 
For  incense  and  masses  and  prayers  — 

They  are  crushed  in  the  coils  of  your  halters; 

'Twere  well  —  by  the  creeds  ye  have  nursed 
That  ye  send  up  a  cry  from  your  altars, 

A  mass  for  the  Martyrs  Accursed; 

A  passionate  prayer  for  reprieval 

For  the  Brotherhood  not  understood  — 

For  the  Heroes  who  died  for  the  evil, 
Believing  the  evil  was  good. 

[62] 


To  the  Breakers,  the  Bold,  the  Despoilers, 
Who  dreamed  of  a  world  over-thrown  .  .  . 

They  who  died  for  the  millions  of  toilers  - 
Few  —  fronting  the  nations  alone! 

—  To  the  Outlawed  of  men  and  the  Branded, 
Whether  hated  or  hating  they  fell  — 

I  pledge  the  devoted,  red-handed, 
Unfaltering  Heroes  of  Hell! 


[63] 


ACCIDENTALS 


'  THE  EVERLASTING  RETURN  ' 

It    is    dark  .  .  .  so    dark,    I    remember    the    sun    on 

Chios  .  .  . 
It  is  still  .  .  .  so  still,  I  hear  the  beat  of  our  paddles 

on  the 


Ten  times  we  had  watched  the  moon 
Rise  like  a  thin  white  virgin  out  of  the  waters 
And  round  into  a  full  maternity  .  .  . 
For  thrice  ten  moons  we  had  touched  no  flesh 
Save  the  man  flesh  on  either  hand 
That  was  black  and  bitter  and  salt 
and  scaled  by  the  sea. 

The  Athenian  boy  sat  on  my  left  .  .  . 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  corn  steeped  in  wine  .  . 

And  on  my  right  was  Phildar  the  Carthaginian, 

Grinning  Phildar 

With  his  mouth  pulled  taut  as  by  reins 

from  his  black  gapped  teeth. 
Many  a  whip  had  coiled  about  him 
Ar.d  his  shoulders  were  rutted  deep 

as  wet  ground  under  chariot  wheels, 
And  his  skin  was  red  and  tough 

as  a  bull's  hide  cured  in  the  sun. 

[67] 


He  did  not  sing  like  the  other  slaves, 

But  when  a  big  wind  came  up  he  screamed  with  it. 

And  always  he  looked  out  to  sea, 

Save  when  he  tore  at  his  fish  ends 

Or  spat  across  me  at  the  Greek  boy, 

whose  mouth  was  red  and  apart  like  an  opened  fruit. 

We  had  rowed  from  dawn  and  the  green  galley 

hard  at  our  stern. 

She  was  green  and  squat  and  skulked  close  to  the  sea. 
All  day  the  tish  of  their  paddles  had  tickled  our  ears, 
And  when  night  came  on 
And  little  naked  stars  dabbled  in  the  water 
And  half  the  crouching  moon 
Slid  over  the  silver  belly  of  the  sea 

thick-scaled  with  light, 
We  heard  them  singing  at  their  oars  .  .  . 
We  who  had  no  breath  for  song. 

There  was  no  sound  in  our  boat 

Save  the  clingle  of  wrist  chains 

And  the  sobbing  of  the  young  Greek. 

I  cursed  him  that  his  hair  blew  in  my  mouth, 

tasting  salt  of  the  sea  .  .  . 
I  cursed  him  that  his  oar  kept  ill  time  .  .  . 
When  he  looked  at  me  I  cursed  him  again, 
That  his  eyes  were  soft  as  a  woman's. 

How  long  .  .  .  since  their  last  shell  gouged  our  bat 
teries? 

How  long  .  .  .  since  we  rose  at  aim  with  a  sleuth  moon 
astern? 

[68] 


(It  was  the  damned  green  moon  that  nosed  us  out  .  .  . 
The  moon  that  flushed  our  periscope  till  it  shone  like  a 
silver  flame  .  .  .) 

They  loosed  each  man's  right  hand 
As  the  galley  spent  on  our  decks  .  .  . 
And  aniazed  and  bloodied  we  reared  half  up 
And  &riW "askew  with  the  left  hand  shackled  .  •  . 
But  a  zigzag  fire  leapt  in  our  sockets 
And  knotted  our  thews  like  string  .  .  . 
Our  thews  grown  stiff  as  a  crooked  spine 
that  would  not  straighten  .  .  . 

How  long  .  .  .  since  our  gauges  fell 
And  the  sea  shoved  us  under? 
It  is  dark  ...  50  dark  .  .  . 
Darkness  presses  hairy-hot 
Where  three  make  crowded  company  .  .  . 
And  the  rank  steel  smells.  .  .  . 
It  is  still  ...  50  still  .  .  . 
/  seem  to  hear  the  wind 
On  the  dimpled  face  of  the  water 
fathoms  above  .  .  . 

It  was  still  ...  so  still  ...  we  three  that  were  left 

alive 

Stared  in  each  other's  faces  .  .  . 

But  three  make  bitter  company  at  one  man's  bread  .  .  . 
And  our  hate  grew  sharp  and  bright 

as  the  moon's  edge  in  the  water. 


[69] 


One  grinned  with  his  mouth  awry 

from  the  long  gapped  teeth  .  .  . 
And  one  shivered  and  whined  like  a  gull 

as  the  waves  pawed  us  over  .  .  . 
But  one  struck  with  his  hate  in  his  hand  .  .  . 

After  that  I  remember 

Only  the  dead  men's  oars  that  flapped  in  the  sea  .  .  . 
The  dead  men's  oars  that  rattled  and  clicked 
like  idiots'  tongues. 

It  is  still  ...  50  still,  with  the  jargon  of  engines  quiet. 

We  three  awaiting  the  crunch  of  the  sea 

Reach  our  hands  in  the  dark  and  touch  each  other's 

faces  .  .  . 

We  three  sheathing  hate  in  our  hearts  .  .  . 
But  when  hate  shall  have  made  its  circuit, 
Our  bones  will  be  loving  company 
Here  in  the  sea's  den  .  .  . 
And  one  whimpers  and  cries  on  his  God 
And  one  sits  sullenly 
But  both  draw  away  from  me  .  .  . 
For  I  am  the  pyre  their  memories  burn  on  .  .  . 
Like  black  flames  leaping 
Our  fiery  gestures  light  the  walled-in 

darkness  of  the  sea  .  .  . 
The  sea  that  kneels  above  us  .  .  . 
And  makes  no  sign. 


[70] 


PALESTINE 

OLD  plant  of  Asia  — 

Mutilated  vine 

Holding  earth's  leaping  sap 

In  every  stem  and  shoot 

That  lopped  off,  sprouts  again  — 

Why  should  you  seek  a  plateau  walled  about, 

Whose  garden  is  the  world? 


[71] 


THE  SONG 

THAT  day,  in  the  slipping  of  torsos  and  straining  flanks 
on  the  bloodied  ooze  of  fields  plowed  by  the  iron, 

And  the  smoke  bluish  near  earth  and  bronze  in  the 
sunshine  floating  like  cotton-down, 

And  the  harsh  and  terrible  screaming, 

And  that  strange  vibration  at  the  roots  of  us  ... 

Desire,  fierce,  like  a  song  .  .  . 

And  we  heard 

(Do  you  remember?) 

All  the  Red  Cross  bands  on  Fifth  avenue 

And  bugles  in  little  home  towns 

And  children's  harmonicas  bleating 

America! 

And  after  .  .  . 

(Do  you  remember?) 

The  drollery  of  the  wind  on  our  faces, 

And  horizons  reeling, 

And  the  terror  of  the  plain 

Heaving  like  a  gaunt  pelvis  to  the  sun  .  ,  , 

Under  us  —  threshing  and  twanging 

Torn-up  roots  of  the  Song  .  .  . 


[72] 


TO  THE  OTHERS 

I  SEE  you,  refulgent  ones, 

Burning  so  steadily 

Like  big  white  arc  lights  .  .  . 

There  are  so  many  of  you. 

I  like  to  watch  you  weaving  — 

Altogether  and  with  precision 

Each  his  ray  — 

Your  tracery  of  light, 

Making  a  shining  way  about  America. 

I  note  your  infinite  reactions  — 

In  glassware 

And  sequin 

And  puddles 

And  bits  of  jet  — 

And  here  and  there  a  diamond  .  .  . 

But  you  do  not  yet  see  me, 

Who  am  a  torch  blown  along  the  wind, 

Flickering  to  a  spark 

But  never  out. 


[73] 


•     t 


BABEL 

OH,  God  did  cunningly,  there  at  Babel  — 
Not  mere  tongues  dividing,  but  soul  from  soul, 
So  that  never  again  should  men  be  able 
To  fashion  one  infinite,  towering  whole. 


[74] 


ft 


THE  FIDDLER 

IN  a  little  Hungarian  cafe 
Men  and  women  are  drinking 
Yellow  wine  in  tall  goblets. 

Through  the  milky  haze  of  the  smoke, 

The  fiddler,  under-sized,  blond, 

Leans  to  his  violin 

As  to  the  breast  of  a  woman. 

Red  hair  kindles  to  fire 

On  the  black  of  his  coat-sleeve, 

Where  his  white  thin  hand 

Trembles  and  dives, 

Like  a  sliver  of  moonlight, 

When  wind  has  broken  the  water. 


[75] 


•    • 


DAWN  WIND 

WIND,  just  arisen  — 
(Off  what  cool  mattress  of  marsh-moss 
In  tented  boughs  leaf-drawn  before  the  stars, 
Or  niche  of  cliff  under  the  eagles?) 
You  of  living  things, 
So  gay  and  tender  and  full  of  play  — 
Why  do  you  blow  on  my  thoughts  —  like  cut  flowers 
Gathered  and  laid  to  dry  on  this  paper,  rolled  out  of 
dead  wood? 

I  see  you 

Shaking  that  flower  at  me  with  soft  invitation 

And  frisking  away, 

Deliciously  rumpling  the  grass  .  .  . 

So  you  fluttered  the  curtains  about  my  cradle, 

Prattling  of  fields 

Before  I  had  had  my  milk  .  .  . 

Did  I  stir  on  my  pillow,  making  to  follow  you,  Fleet 

One? 
I  —  swaddled,  unwinged,  like  a  bird  in  the  egg. 

Let  be 

My  dreams  that  crackle  under  your  breath  .  .  . 

You  have  the  dust  of  the  world  to  blow  on  ... 


[76] 


Do  not  tag  me  and  dance  away,  looking  back 
I  am  too  old  to  play  with  you, 
Eternal  Child. 


[77] 


NORTH  WIND 

I  LOVE  you,  malcontent 

Male  wind  — 

Shaking  the  pollen  from  a  flower 

Or  hurling  the  sea  backward  from  the  grinning  sand. 

Blow  on  and  over  my  dreams  .  .  . 

Scatter  my  sick  dreams  .  .  . 

Throw  your  lusty  arms  about  me  .  .  . 

Envelop  all  my  hot  body  .  .  . 

Carry  me  to  pine  forests  — 

Great,   rough-bearded   forests  .  .  . 

Bring  me  to  stark  plains  and  steppes  .  .  . 

I  would  have  the  North  to-night  — 

The  cold,  enduring  North. 

And  if  we  should  meet  the  Snow, 
Whirling  in  spirals, 
And  he  should  blind  my  eyes  .  .  . 
Ally,  you  will  defend  me  — 
You  will  hold  me  close, 
Blowing  on  my  eyelids. 


[78] 


THE  DESTROYER 

I  AM  of  the  wind  .  .  . 

A  wisp  of  the  battering  wind  .  .  . 

I  trail  my  fingers  along  the  Alps 

And  an  avalanche  falls  in  my  wake  .  .  . 

I  feel  in  my  quivering  length 

When  it  buries  the  hamlet  beneath  .  .  . 

I  hurriedly  sweep  aside 

The  cities  that  clutter  our  path  .  .  . 

As  we  whirl  about  the  circle  of  the  globe 

As  we  tear  at  the  pillars  of  the  world  .  .  , 

Open  to  the  wind, 

The  Destroyer! 

The  wind  that  is  battering  at  your  gates. 


[79] 


LULLABY 

ROCK-A-BY  baby,  woolly  and  brown  .  .  . 

(There's  a  shout  at  the  door  an'  a  big  red  light  .  .  .) 

LiP  coon  baby,  mammy  is  down  .  .  . 

Han's  that  hold  yuh  are  steady  an'  white  .  .  . 

Look  piccaninny  —  such  a  gran'  blaze 
Lickin'  up  the  roof  an'  the  sticks  of  home  — 
Ever  see  the  like  in  all  yo'  days! 
—  Cain't  yuh  sleep,  mah  bit-of -honey-comb  ? 

Rock-a-by  baby,  up  to  the  sky! 
Look  at  the  cherries  driftin'  by  — 
Bright  red  cherries  spilled  on  the  groun' — 
Piping-hot  cherries  at  nuthin'  a  poun'! 

Hush,  mah  HP  black-bug  —  doan   yuh  weep. 
Daddy's  run  away  an'  mammy's  in  a  heap 
By  her  own  fron'  door  in  the  blazin'  heat 
Outah  the  shacks  like  warts  on  the  street  .  .  . 

An'  the  singin'  flame  an*  the  gleeful  crowd 
Circlin'  aroun'  .  .  .  won't  mammy  be  proud! 
With  a  stone  at  her  hade  an'  a  stone  on  her  heart, 
An'  her  mouth  like  a  red  plum,  broken  apart  .  .  . 

[80] 


See  where  the  blue  an'  khaki  prance, 
Adding  brave  colors  to  the  dance 
About  the  big  bonfire  white  folks  make  — 
Such  gran'  doin's  fo'  a  HP  coon's  sake! 

Hear  all  the  eagah  feet  runnin'  in  town  — 
See  all  the  willin'  han's  reach  outah  night  — 
Han's  that  are  wonderful,  steady  an'  white! 
To  toss  up  a  HP  babe,  blinkin'  an'  brown  .  .  . 

Rock-a-by  baby  —  higher  an'  higher! 
Mammy  is  sleepin'  an'  daddy's  run  lame  .  .  . 
(Soun'  may  yuh  sleep  in  yo'  cradle  o'  fire!) 
Rock-a-by  baby,  hushed  in  the  flame  .  .  . 

(An  incident  of  the  East  St.  Louis  Race  Riots,  when  some 
white  women  flung  a  living  colored  baby  into  the  heart  of  a 
blazing  fire.) 


[81] 


I     « 


THE  FOUNDLING 

SNOW  wraiths  circle  us 

Like  washers  of  the  dead, 

Flapping  their  white  wet  cloths 

Impatiently 

About  the  grizzled  head, 

Where  the  coarse  hair  mats  like  grass, 

And  the  efficient  wind 

With  cold  professional  haste 

Probes  like  a  lancet 

Through  the  cotton  shirt  .  .  . 

About  us  are  white  cliffs  and  space. 

No  facades  show, 

Nor  roof  nor  any  spire  .  .  . 

All  sheathed  in  snow  .  .  . 

The  parasitic  snow 

That  clings  about  them  like  a  blight. 

Only  detached  lights 

Float  hazily  like  greenish  moons, 

And  endlessly 

Down  the  whore-street, 

Accouched  and  comforted  and  sleeping  warm, 

The  blizzard  waltzes  with  the  night. 


[82] 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  JEWELS 

THE  woman  with  jewels  sits  in  the  cafe, 

Spraying  light  like  a  fountain. 

Diamonds  glitter  on  her  bulbous  fingers 

And  on  her  arms,  great  as  thighs, 

Diamonds  gush  from  her  ear-lobes  over  the  goitrous 

throat. 

She  is  obesely  beautiful. 
Her  eyes  are  full  of  bleared  lights, 
Like  little  pools  of  tar,  spilled  by  a  sailor  in  mad  haste 

for  shore  .  .  . 
And    her    mouth    is    scarlet    and    full  —  only    a    little 

crumpled  —  like   a   flower   that   has   been    pressed 

apart  .  .  . 

Why  does  she  come  alone  to  this  obscure  basement  — 
She  who  should  have  a  litter  and  hand-maidens 
to  support  her  on  either  side? 

She  ascends  the  stairway,  and  the  waiters  turn  to  look 

at  her,  spilling  the  soup. 
The   black   satin   dress   is   a   little   lifted,   showing   the 

dropsical  legs  in  their  silken  fleshings  .  .  . 
The  mountainous  breasts  tremble  .  .  . 
There  is  an  agitation  in  her  gems, 
That  quiver  incessantly,  emitting  trillions  of  fiery 

rays  .  .  . 

[83] 


She  erupts  explosive  breaths 
Every  step  is  an  adventure  v 
From  this  .  .  . 
The  serpent's  tooth 
Saved  Cleopatra. 


[84] 


SUBMERGED 

I  HAVE  known  only  my  own  shallows  — 

Safe,  plumbed  places, 

Where  I  was  wont  to  preen  myself. 

But  for  the  abyss 

I  wanted  a  plank  beneath 

And  horizons  .  .  . 

I  was  afraid  of  the  silence 
And  the  slipping  toe-hold  .  .  . 

Oh,  could  I  now  dive 

Into  the  unexplored  deeps  of  me  — 

Delve  and  bring  up  and  give 

All  that  is  submerged,  encased,  unfolded, 

That  is  yet  the  best. 


[85] 


ART  AND  LIFE 

WHEN  Art  goes  bounding,  lean, 
Up  hill-tops  fired  green 
To  pluck  a  rose  for  life. 

Life  like  a  broody  hen 
Cluck-clucks  him  back  again. 

But  when  Art,  imbecile, 
Sits  old  and  chill 
On  sidings  shaven  clean, 
And  counts  his  clustering 
Dead  daisies  on  a  string 
With  witless  laughter.  .  .  . 

Then  like  a  new  Jill 
Toiling  up  a  hill 
Life  scrambles  after. 


[86] 


BROOKLYN  BRIDGE 

PYTHONESS  body  —  arching 
Over  the  night  like  an  ecstasy  — 
I  feel  your  coils  tightening  .  .  . 
And  the  world's  lessening  breath. 


[87] 


DREAMS 

MEN  die  ... 

Dreams  only  change  their  houses. 

They  cannot  be  lined  up  against  a  wall 

And  quietly  buried  under  ground, 

And  no  more  heard  of  ... 

However  deep  the  pit  and  heaped  the  clay  — 

Like  seedlings  of  old  time 

Hooding  a  sacred  rose  under  the  ice  cap  of  the  world  — - 

Dreams  will  to  light. 


[88] 


THE  FIRE 

THE  old  men  of  the  world  have  made  a  fire 
To  warm  their  trembling  hands. 
They  poke  the  young  men  in. 
The  young  men  burn  like  withes. 

If  one  run  a  little  way, 
The  old  men  are  wrath. 
They  catch  him  and  bind  him  and  throw  him 

again  to  the  flames. 
Green  withes  burn  slow  .  .  . 
And  the  smoke  of  the  young  men's  torment 
Rises  round  and  sheer  as  the  trunk 

of  a  pillared  oak, 
And  the  darkness  thereof  spreads  over  the 

sky.  .  .  . 

Green  withes  burn  slow  .  .  . 

And  the  old  men  of  the  world  sit  round 

the  fire 

And  rub  their  hands.  .  .  . 
But  the  smoke  of  the  young  men's  torment 
Ascends  up  for  ever  and  ever. 


[89] 


*    ~ 


A  MEMORY 

I   REMEMBER 

The  crackle  of  the  palm  trees 
Over  the  mooned  white  roofs  of  the  town  .  .  . 
The  shining  town  .  .  . 
And  the  tender  fumbling  of  the  surf 
On  the  sulphur-yellow  beaches 

As  we  sat  ...  a  little  apart  ...  in  the  close-pressing 
night. 

The  moon  hung  above  us  like  a  golden  mango, 

And  the  moist  air  clung  to  our  faces, 

Warm  and  fragrant  as  the  open  mouth  of  a  child 

And  we  watched  the  out-flung  sea 

Rolling  to  the  purple  edge  of  the  world, 

Yet  ever  back  upon  itself  .  .  . 

As  we  . 


Inadequate  night  .  .  . 
And  mooned  white  memory 
Of  a  tropic  sea  ... 
How  softly  it  comes  up 
Like  an  ungathered  lily. 


[90] 


THE  EDGE 

I  THOUGHT  to  die  that  night  in  the  solitude 
where  they  would  never  find  me  ... 

But  there  was  time  .  .  . 

And  I  lay  quietly  on  the  drawn  knees  of  the  mountain, 
staring  into  the  abyss  .  .  . 

I  do  not  know  how  long  .  .  . 

I  could  not  count  the  hours,  they  ran  so  fast 

Like     little     bare-foot     urchins  —  shaking     my     hands 
away  .  .  . 

But  I  remember 

Somewhere  water  trickled  like  a  thin  severed  vein  .  .  . 

And  a  wind  came  out  of  the  grass, 

Touching  me  gently,  tentatively,  like  a  paw. 

As  the  night  grew 

The  gray  cloud  that  had  covered  the  sky  like  sackcloth 

Fell  in  ashen  folds  about  the  hills, 

Like     hooded     virgins,     pulling     their     cloaks     about 

them  .  .  . 

There  must  have  been  a  spent  moon, 
For  the  Tall  One's  veil  held  a  shimmer  of  silver  .  .  . 

That  too  I  remember  .  .  . 

And  the  tenderly  rocking  mountain 

Silence 

And  beating  stars  .  .  . 

[91] 


*    a, 
Dawn 

Lay  like  a  waxen  hand  upon  the  world, 
And  folded  hills 
Broke  into  a  sudden  wonder  of  peaks,  stemming  clear 

and  cold, 

Till  the  Tall  One  bloomed  like  a  lily, 
Flecked  with  sun, 
Fine  as  a  golden  pollen  — 
It  seemed  a  wind  might  blow  it  from  the  snow. 

I  smelled  the  raw  sweet  essences  of  things, 

And  heard  spiders  in  the  leaves 

And  ticking  of  little  feet, 

As  tiny  creatures  came  out  of  their  doors 

To  see  God  pouring  light  into  his  star  .  .  . 

...  It  seemed  life  held 

No  future  and  no  past  but  this  .  .  . 

And  I  too  got  up  stiffly  from  the  earth, 
And  held  my  heart  up  like  a  cup  .  .  . 


[92] 


THE  GARDEN 

BOUNTIFUL  Givers, 

I  look  along  the  years 

And  see  the  flowers  you  threw  .  .  . 

Anemones 

And  sprigs  of  gray 

Sparse  heather  of  the  rocks, 

Or  a  wild  violet 

Or  daisy  of  a  daisied  field  .  .  . 

But  each  your  best. 

I  might  have  worn  them  on  my  breast 

To  wilt  in  the  long  day  .  .  . 

I  might  have  stemmed  them  in  a  narrow  vase 

And  watched  each  petal  sallowing  .  .  . 

I  might  have  held  them  so  —  mechanically  — 

Till  the  wind  winnowed  all  the  leaves 

And  left  upon  my  hands 

A  little  smear  of  dust. 

Instead 

I  hid  them  in  the  soft  warm  loam 
Of  a  dim  shadowed  place  .  .  . 
Deep 

In  a  still  cool  grotto, 
Lit  only  by  the  memories  of  stars 
And  the  wide  and  luminous  eyes 
[93] 


Of  dead  poets 

That  love  me  and  that  I  love  .  .  . 

Deep  .  .  .  deep  .  .  . 

Where  none  may  see  —  not  even  ye  who  gave 

About  my  soul  your  garden  beautiful. 


[94] 


UNDER-SONG 

THERE   is  music   in   the   strong 

Deep-throated   bush, 
Whisperings  of  song 

Heard  in  the  leaves'  hush  — 
Ballads  of  the  trees 

In  tongues  unknown  — 
A  reminiscent  tone 

On  minor  keys  .  .  . 

Boughs  swaying  to  and  fro 

Though  no  winds  pass  .  .  . 
Faint  odors  in  the  grass 

Where  no  flowers  grow, 
And  flutterings  of  wings 

And  faint  first  notes, 
Once  babbled  on  the  boughs 

Of  faded  springs. 

Is  it  music  from  the  graves 

Of  all  things  fair 
Trembling  on  the  staves 

Of  spacious  air  — 
Fluted  by  the  winds 

Songs  with  no  words — = 
Sonatas  from  the  throats 

Of  master  birds? 
[95] 


One  peering  through  the  husk 

Of  darkness  thrown 
May  hear  it  in  the  dusk  — 

That  ancient  tone, 
Silvery  as  the  light 

Of  long  dead  stars 
Yet  falling  through  the  night 

In  trembling  bars. 


[96] 


A  WORN  ROSE 

WHERE  to-day  would  a  dainty  buyer 
Imbibe  your  scented  juice, 
Pale  ruin  with  a  heart  of  fire; 
Drain  your  succulence  with  her  lips, 
Grown  sapless  from  much  use  .  .  . 
Make  minister  of  her  desire 
A  chalice  cup  where  no  bee  sips  — 
Where  no  wasp  wanders  in? 

Close  to  her  white  flesh  housed  an  hour, 

One  held  you  .  .  .  her  spent  form 
Drew  on  yours  for  its  wasted  dower  — 
What  favour  could  she  do  you  more? 
Yet,  of  all  who  drink  therein, 
None  know  it  is  the  warm 
Odorous  heart  of  a  ravished  flower 
Tingles  so  in  her  mouth's  red  core  .  .  . 


[97] 


IRON  WINE 

THE  ore  in  the  crucible  is  pungent,  smelling  like  acrid 

wine, 

It  is  dusky  red,  like  the  ebb  of  poppies, 
And  purple,  like  the  blood  of  elderberries. 
Surely  it  is  a  strong  wine  —  juice  distilled 

of  the  fierce  iron. 
I  am  drunk  of  its  fumes. 
I  feel  its  fiery  flux 
Diffusing,   permeating, 
Working  some  strange  alchemy  .  .  . 
So  that  I  turn  aside  from  the  goodly  board, 
So  that  I  look  askance  upon  the  common  cup, 
And  from  the  mouths  of  crucibles 
Suck  forth  the  acrid  sap. 


[98] 


DISPOSSESSED 

TENDER  and  tremulous  green  of  leaves 

Turned  up  by  the  wind, 

Twanging  among  the  vines  — 

Wind  in  the  grass 

Blowing  a  clear  path 

For  the  new-stripped  soul  to  pass  .  .  . 

The  naked  soul  in  the  sunlight  .  .  . 
Like  a  wisp  of  smoke  in  the  sunlight 
On  the  hill-side  shimmering. 

Dance  light  on  the  wind,  little  soul, 

Like  a  thistle-down  floating 

Over  the  butterflies 

And  the  lumbering  bees  .  .  . 

Come  away  from  that  tree 

And  its  shadow  grey  as  a  stone  .  .  . 

Bathe  in  the  pools  of  light 
On  the  hillside  shimmering  — 

Shining  and  wetted  and  warm  in  the  sun-spray  falling 
like  golden  rain  — 

But  do  not  linger  and  look 
At  that  bleak  thing  under  the  tree. 

[99] 


THE  STAR 

LAST  night 

I  watched  a  star  fall  like  a  great  pearl  into  the  sea, 
Till  my  ego  expanding  encompassed  sea  and  star, 
Containing  both  as  in  a  trembling  cup. 


[100] 


THE  TIDINGS 

(Easter  1916) 

CENSORED  lies  that  mimic  truth  .  .  . 

Censored  truth  as  pale  as  fear  .  .  . 
My  heart  is  like  a  rousing  bell  — 

And  but  the  dead  to  hear  .  .  . 

My  heart  is  like  a  mother  bird, 

Circling  ever  higher, 
And  the  nest-tree  rimmed  about 

By  a  forest  fire  .  .  . 

My  heart  is  like  a  lover  foiled 

By  a  broken  stair  — 
They  are  fighting  to-night  in  Sackville  Street, 

And  I  am  not  there! 


[101] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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' 


•••^B     ••    1^^ 

'NTER-L1BRA 
LOAN 

OCT26  1965 


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2  2 1981 


JUL    71970  9 
RB?DU) 


CIR  FEB23'81 
U6  2  3  1995     . 

jijN  19  1986 

AUTO.  DISC. 
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